


A Cat’s Tale (or That Time When Sherlock Had Nine Lives)

by xsilverdreamsx



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Humour, Season 2 spoilers, Some Swearing, post-Reichenbach AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-26
Updated: 2012-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-30 03:43:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsilverdreamsx/pseuds/xsilverdreamsx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s about Sherlock. You see, he’s not <i>actually</i> dead. “</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cat’s Tale (or That Time When Sherlock Had Nine Lives)

**Author's Note:**

> I've had so many emotions and feelings about the last episode of Sherlock, and all the fics have been so wonderful and achy and heartwrenching.  
> So, as a cure, I wrote crack.
> 
> I'm not sorry.
> 
> (Beta'ed by the lovely and wonderful [dansetheblues](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dansetheblues) , who dragged me into this fandom, and also thank you to [etharei](http://archiveofourown.org/users/etharei) for looking over this initially. <3

“Hello, John.”

“Mycroft. What do you want?”

“I have a gift for you.”

“I want none of your gifts. Just.. just leave me alone.”

“It’s about Sherlock. You see, he’s not _actually_ dead.”

“What.”

“He’s in a rather... _unique_ situation-”

“But I saw the body-”

“Ah, yes, that. That was before he was saved, of course.”

“We were at his grave! Not over two hours ago!”

“An empty grave, to be precise.”

“Where is he then? Where’s that insufferable man?”

“Well, you see, John, here lies our problem. Sherlock’s not really a _man_ anymore.”

“.......”

“He’s been turned into a cat.”

“I’m going to _kill_ that bastard.”

************

Mycroft had turned up at Harry’s home, where John had been staying the past week while avoiding his and Sherlock’s place. 

Mycroft had insisted that Sherlock was alive, turned into a cat somehow – and then refused to give any more details. He told John that this was, in a way, a case, and Sherlock, the _real_ Sherlock would have taken it.

John had considered punching Mycroft then, but the two tall bodyguards flanking him had dampened the idea a little. Getting thrown into jail wouldn’t have helped him in any way.

He told himself that he could always punch Mycroft _after_ seeing the cat. 

He had no intention of going back, not with so many memories, but Mycroft had knew exactly how to convince John.

“The cat is now residing at home. _Your_ home, in fact, and the last time I saw it, it was using the Stradivarius as a scratching post.”

Twenty minutes later, John had found himself standing in front of the heavy wooden doors, the numbers 221B staring back him.

The first time he had been back at the flat was right after The Fall. John, in a state of numbness, had sat in his usual chair, staring at the empty chair opposite him. It had looked so bland and boring without the _life_ Sherlock had infused into it when he had occupied that space.

Now as he walks into the room expecting the chair to be empty as usual, there is a cat lounging on it instead. 

******

John sputters in indignation, Mycroft smirks and Mrs. Hudson coos over the cat. Half the battle is lost there and then. 

******  
The Stradivarius is unscathed, much to his relief, but the case it had been resting in is now covered in claw marks, evident signs of a frustrated cat trying to get into the case.

Insisting on getting a cup of tea with Mrs. Hudson at her own flat, Mycroft makes a hasty retreat from the room before John can say anything, leaving him alone with the cat.

John swears inwardly. Bloody Mycroft and his aversion to dealing with family issues.

He turns and stares at the cat, which is now sitting on its hind legs. In Sherlock’s chair.

The cat stares back at John, unblinking.

And then it gets up, and leaps off the chair in a single bound. Its eyes are alien, clear, angular, seemingly taking in its surroundings as it stalks towards John – who is seated in his usual chair – and waves its tail slowly, almost predatory. Its body is sleek and the fur black with a strip of white down its front, almost making it look like it was wearing a suit. 

Without warning, it swats at John’s feet.

He manages to pull back instinctively before those claws can descend.

“Oy! Bloody hell!”

The cat looks pleased, its eyes flashing mischief, throwing off a mix of greys and clear greens. John ponders if he should throw the cat out, but he doesn’t want to incur Mrs. Hudson’s wrath. He’s faced down soldiers and generals and had a bomb strapped to his chest by a madman and nearly run over by a bus – but none of them were Mrs. Hudson.

“This is bloody insane,” John mutters to himself softly, his voice barely loud enough to break the silence of the room. “You can’t be Sherlock. There isn’t such a thing as witchcraft. Mycroft has finally gone off his rocker.”  
John drops his head onto his hands, his arms perched on his knees and breathes.

“I suppose, if you really _are_ Sherlock, you’re going to tell me that I’m not being very observant right now. That I’m such a fool for believing what everyone wants me to see, that I didn’t watch you fall 70 feet off a building, that I didn’t watch you bleed all over the pavement, that I didn’t feel your pulse anymore, that it had all been a sham.

“I saw it all, and I know that Sherlock is dead, and I’ve lost my best friend in the world, and Mycroft is going to have to deal with the fact that giving me a pet isn’t going to change that.”

Its eyes narrowed, shifting to a steel grey so fast, so like Sherlock’s in the past that John finds that he can’t breathe, the memory of Sherlock’s eyes flashing and changing color to match his mood punching him in the gut.

He’s going insane, that’s what it is, he thinks. John is going insane.

“And to top it all off, I’m talking to a cat.” John giggles almost hysterically, thinking that even madness was a comfort.

“I wish you were really Sherlock, you know. I wish I could believe this, that you’re alive, even if this sounds like something out of a fantasy story.”

The cat, who has been curiously nosing at John’s feet, sits back on its haunches and tilts its head to the side, considering John’s face for a second. Then it rears back a little, digging its claws into the carpet before leaping up and landing right on John’s lap.

“What--”

And then it starts scratching on the chair, its claws digging in and ripping bits of cloth out of the armrest.

“Jesus, what are you doing!”

The cat ignores him, except for when John tries to push it off his lap. It turns around and hisses at John instead, its long fur rising up along its spine. Dropping his hands away, John mutters out “Alright, fine, have a go at it, you’re insane” and watches the cat finish scratching away at the cloth.

When the creature is done, it settles back onto John’s lap. And then John sees exactly what it’s scratched out onto the chair.

**S-H**

And then the cat, _Sherlock_ , rubs his head against John’s hand and _purrs_.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, Watson and Mycroft belong to BBC, Gatiss and Moffatt. I'm just playing in the sandbox.


End file.
